


Memoirs of Weirdness

by WitchWayWizardry



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Buffy (Post-Season 7), Buffy (Pre-Season 8), Demons, Diary/Journal, Gen, Gender, Goddess, Inner Struggle, Magic, Nature Versus Nurture, Secrets, Sex, To Be Your Best, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires, What makes a man?, What makes a woman?, tragic, uplifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 11:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchWayWizardry/pseuds/WitchWayWizardry
Summary: When I first watched a couple episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer - somewhere in the middle of Season 5 - I immediately fell in love, but I was curious: why were there no male Slayers?  Only after watching more, and in the proper order, did I learn why that was.  And so I put my foolish notions of male Slayers behind me... until I went to university, and I learned more about the realities on the social and cultural constructions of gender.  It was here I pondered: what makes a woman?  What makes a man?  It was out of my love for this show, and my broadening worldview, that this short story was born, and I now feel comfortable sharing with the fandom.





	1. May 2003

May 22, 2003

Well, this has been quite the couple of days. I’m just supposed to go to school after swim practice, then band, then home, then homework, then bed. That’s my plan until graduation and I guess that hasn’t changed, but weirdness definitely abounds.

I guess it was late in the morning when it happened. Knocked me on my ass, that’s for sure. Friends and I were heading to lunch, same as always. Same old routine. But, I never made it to lunch, or to afternoon classes. I felt like I was hit by a mach truck; my best friend, Mike, said he saw me fly back across the hall, smacking into the lockers so hard that I left a big, me-shaped dent. Hit my head pretty bad, too. I was bleeding, so I had to go to the hospital. I hate hospitals. They smell like wet paint, sterilizer, latex, and death (some might call it formaldehyde). They’re where people go to get sick when they think they’re sick, but not. And they’re where people go to die. Never did learn exactly why emergency rooms aren’t in a perpetual state of panic. I know my mom would’ve panicked. She’s the definition of overprotective.

Doctors say I’m fine. Since there aren’t any bumps or bruises from my spontaneous attempt to fly backwards, they don’t believe my friends’ testimony. I remember the phantom tank that barred my lunch-bound trek, but not the flying. I couldn’t recall any pain, either. And I may be medically fine, but hospital policy said that I had to be held overnight. For tests. Hospital tests. Guess how I feel about those.

First, there’s the no sleeping. Can’t let a concussion have its way with me. But I wasn’t tired. Even with my before-dawn-to-after-sundown schedule, I was alert and focused. Television wasn’t working, so I made a game of trick-throwing my plastic knife into the air. The nurses would test my limbs and reflexes. Everyone said I must’ve been the product of a miracle, “if” they said, “if you aren’t a lying little punk out for attention.”

Okay, they weren’t that mean. They were nice, and gave me lots of jello. But I was dreading the x-ray test. I’ve broken a few bones in the past, been x-rayed before. My arms and legs aren’t the problem. But I keep my secret inside. Something only my parents and doctors can know, because they’ve seen the x-rays. This doctor, his nurses, the lab techs will see my secret; I hoped they’d be kind enough to leave it alone. It is mine, after all.

They left my secret alone, but exchanged curious glances with me and themselves, and then they said I could go home. The parents let me take another day off school, just to make sure I’m still as me as I can be. They kept saying I should sleep, but I felt too good to sleep. I felt strong. I may be a varsity swimmer, but I’m not a jock. Or so I’ve convinced myself, after all I’m not built like the mini-hulks on the football team or anything. Still, on my day off to goof and play video games in bed as per doctor’s orders, I did push-ups, pull-ups, and borrowed my father’s free weights. I didn’t bother counting or setting reps, but when my mother heard the crash as weights were accidentally dropped on the second floor, she’d had enough. And I followed the command to take a shower and go to bed.

Then, I dreamed. I dreamed of me. My hair wasn’t long anymore; it was fiercely short, like in the army. My face looked older and harder. I was bent over a desk, writing in a journal, like this one, only more than the first couple of pages were used. I appeared to have been writing for months, and hitting the gym pretty hard in the same stretch of time. I looked good, and so did the random loaded crossbow that leaned against the desk. And that was the dream.

Which I guess is why I’ve been writing this. I finished my homework, and I decided to see this dream as reality. Maybe without the crossbow… The TV’s on and there’s a story on the news. Apparently, some bizarre freak earthquake had happened a couple days ago. It was kind of cool seeing a massive crater where the supposed town of Sunnydale, CA had once been. Weirder still: the city was already abandoned, before anyone predicted such an event. And no one had.

Oh, well, at least no one was hurt. Probably just another event of the unexplainable. I’m going to bed.

 

May 23, 2003

I’m fast. I am REALLY fast. No one can figure out what it is, but this morning, when I’m normally yawning and downing a protein shake because I’m up to exercise before the sun rises, I was energized and alert. And no one could keep up with me in the water. I’m not the swimming star by a long shot. I’m good, but certainly not the best. Or I wasn’t. And Coach worked us pretty hard. He said we’d been slacking. Of course, afterwards he asked where I’d been hiding that speed for the past three years of my high school career. Didn’t know how to answer.

Then school happened.

People were much more interested in how I wrecked all those lockers with my collision than they were worried with how I was. But that’s high school for you. Needless to say, I got my fill of repeating “I don’t know” over and over and over.

I had another strange dream last night. There was this woman, long blonde hair in her early or mid twenties. She was really pretty, but there was something else about her. Her face was lined with healing cuts and her eyes burned with fear and determination. It was like she knew that she was going to die. And there were lots of other girls with her, most looked younger than the blonde woman and they were all very afraid. They all stood on the shelf-like cliff side, clutching medieval and makeshift weapons, towering over a massive underground cave that roared with the sounds of fires and shouting.

Then there were the monsters, the source of the shouting below the women. They were the very definition of demonic: mindless and grotesque; who looked like they wanted nothing more than to rip and bite their way through every living creature on Earth. These horrifying abominations took no notice of the girls above them, until – almost like some kind of hive mind – they looked up as one, and charged.

I couldn’t believe what I was watching; I couldn’t believe there was nothing I could do. Those girls were going to die. The pretty blonde woman was going to die. The monster crawled up the cliff side with terrifying speed, and still the thirty some-odd girls stood their shaky ground.

Then, everything changed.

Like a burning wave of energy, a force rolled its way through the ceiling and attached to each of the girls. It sank into their skin, their pores, and their cells in an instance; it sank into me. Suddenly, the fear in that cavern was superimposed with righteous confidence. The grips on weapons tightened with knowledgeable ease and they assumed stances, ready for war. Those girls, whom I had never known, held back the innumerable odds of hellish beasts. Those girls, whom I watched stab and punch and kick with impossible strength, seemed almost like sisters to me. Those girls fought as if they were all that stood between the world’s end, and I believed that they were. 

I watched those girls kill and I watched them die. I existed only to watch and shout my silent encouragement, emboldened by their powers, my powers. Then there was another girl, arriving through a hole in the ceiling, who threw a gracefully forged, and undeniably deadly, blood-red axe to the blonde woman in charge. It obviously belonged to her, but it felt like it was mine, too.

The dream showed me this fight, and I woke up before I could know who ended up victorious.


	2. June 2003

June 17, 2003

Ah, summer vacation. What every student lives for. Except those who live in the desert or here in Texas without easy access to air conditioning or a pool. Thankfully, I have both, and I use them without shame. This summer has been rather eventful. To be frank, I’ve got superpowers!

I know!

And this summer has been about who should know about my new-found status as a super being. I’ve told Mike, obviously, and he’s been pretty cool about keeping the weird-but-awesome on the down low. That doesn’t mean we don’t spend a lot of time out in the woods of local camps testing the limits of my super-ness.

So, my powers?

Super Strength: I can lift several hundred pounds without effort. And I broke a falling glass in my hands, trying to catch it. It was an accident, but that’s how my parents began finding out. I glad they’ve been keeping their cool about all this, too.

Super Agility: Mike’s been throwing things at me (rocks, pens, etc.) and I can block/catch them. Even when my back is turned! And my accuracy is insane!

Super Durability: I can jump from the roof of a three-story warehouse and not be hurt. I don’t bruise nearly as easily – i.e. punching a steel door will dent the door, but won’t do anything to my hand. I get cut like anyone else, but that leads me to my next power.

Super Healing: If I do get hurt, by a cut or something, it heals practically overnight. Haven’t really developed the curiosity to try healing a broken bone, but I’m pretty sure it would apply just the same.

Super “Awareness”: That’s really the only way I can describe it. Smells smell the same. Things look the same. Tastes still taste the same. But, it’s almost like I can tell right when something’s going to happen. Mike thinks it might be related to the super reflexes, but I don’t know, it feels like something else.

Pretty crazy right? Don’t get me wrong, I am loving this, but I haven’t told Mike, or even my parents, about the dreams.

They don’t happen every night, and they aren’t exactly recurring. Well, unless you describe “recurring” as always violent and always about a different girl being violent to different scary looking demons and monsters. But that’s the thing: it’s always a different girl, from a different time period, fighting different baddies of boogieman land. The dreams aren’t ever about me. They aren’t anything but dreams. Don’t put much stock in pictures that your mind cooks up. I’ve tried to put most of them behind me. There’s just one that I can’t, or maybe won’t. I still think about that blonde woman from that dream of her and other girls fighting in Hell.

I can’t help but imagine that she won.


	3. July 2003

July 4, 2003

Summer continues. The superpowers thing is on the back-burner for fireworks and assorted grilled meats with the neighbors for Independence Day. Kids still want to play with me; I’ve developed the reputation of the big kid strong enough to throw them all the way to the deep end of the community pool. I try to shoo them off to help dad with the giant grill he rented to make hot dogs and hamburgers. They did eventually give up, but a little boy named Davey gave me his wooden sword, in case I changed my mind.

We watched the fireworks as they exploded over the treetops. It was beautiful, and choreographed to patriotic music, like always. The only difference is I could’ve sworn there was a man, hiding in the trees. All of what I’m writing happened in an instant. He stood there, cloaked in shadow. He wasn’t looking at the colorful display in the sky. He was looking at us. I don’t think he noticed my awareness, but I noticed his face. It was a predator’s face, an animal stalking a meal.

It resembled the hundreds of demonic visages baring fangs that the girls in my dreams would destroy with wooden stakes. Each and every vampire I dreamt of would explode into a cloud of dust and utter one unearthly scream. The similarities were so striking that I could hardly hear Mike calling out to me as he stood by my side.

He asked why I was holding the wooden sword as I was. He asked what I was looking at. I looked down to see my hand holding the sword near the point, for stabbing, rather than at the hilt. And when I looked up in confusion, the man was gone, as if he was never there to begin with.

I wanted it to just be some psychological thing because of the nightmares.

But, I wasn’t so sure.


	4. August 2003

August 14, 2003

Something is definitely going on with me. Or to be more specific, my head. The dreams seem to be sticking and staying in my memory more and more. I can’t seem to focus because of the battles I witness and the girls who fail, who die in my sleep. Mike has noticed, as well as my parents. I drift off and then, if I happen to be handling something, it tends to break. 

School starts at the beginning of next month. Maybe then, with a real schedule, with real responsibilities, and with free student counselors, I might be able to figure this out. I’ll keep the superpowers to myself, and I never want to talk to anyone about the secret I keep inside me, but talking about the dreams with a professional might help. I’m cool with therapy. It works. And I’ve had it as a child when we moved to Texas and I felt uprooted. I’m actually looking forward to the same set of responsibilities. The same tasks to complete everyday. Maybe then, I won’t compulsively stay awake all night long. And I’ll be a senior! I’ll almost be finished with high school…


	5. September 2003

September 5, 2003

Naturally. That’s the only word to describe the start of this school year. Naturally, some delinquent jerk gets injected into our school. Naturally, the grease ball picks me to be his bitch. Naturally, even after working out and testing my strength during the summer months, he zeroes in on me. Naturally, he pesters. Naturally, he pokes and prods for a defiant reaction. Naturally, the teachers do nothing. Naturally, I grab his wrist before he can play-slap my face again, grip a little too hard, and strain the joints in his hands. Naturally, the bully falls to his knees. Naturally, who gets sent to the principal’s office the first week of school?

Naturally, me.

Usually, the principal is a tough but fair mediator. But not this week, it seems. I’m suspended for fighting. Just like that. No matter what witnesses and friends might try to say in my defense. I’m an example. 

And unnaturally? I didn’t strain the joints; I broke that bully’s wrist.

The parents are significantly less than happy. They “can’t believe that I would do something so violent.” They wonder “when I became a bully.” They admonish how this will “impact my permanent record. My future.” It goes on and on. Blah blah blah. Naturally, they aren’t listening.

I’m already sick of this day.

I’m sick of this year, too.

And I’m sick of my powers.

And now I have a week to sit grounded and barred from school grounds. I can’t talk to anyone about what’s happening to me. The potential unbiased ears of a counselor to listen to my dreams seem impossible now. After all, violent dreams must lead to violent outbursts. This one day may have alienated any chance of a good school year. And maybe even some relief from the nightmares that keep playing behind closed eyes.

Great…

And you know something? Bully called me half a man. “Half a man” because I wouldn’t fight him. Joke’s on him, though. Thanks to my secret, I am a man. Completely, but I’m also something more. Something he will never be.


	6. October 2003

October 30, 2003

Things have actually been better at school. I’ve made a reputation that everyone who matters knows better than to think I started the fight. My parents eventually settled down, and we’re fine now. Dad wants to discuss looking into possible colleges what with my good SAT scores that came in the mail. Mom’s been calling all my cousins to have them give me their opinions of their various alma maters. I’m back on the swim team, my grades are fine, and my friends are still my friends. Best of all: that bully has never even so much as looked at me. 

As for the superpowers, I’ve gone over a month with no incident. I’ve got my strength and reflexes under control. Mostly. At least, there hasn’t been any more broken dinnerware.

But now, for the weird (and I’ve decided to call this journal “The Memoirs of Weirdness”.) There’s been a rumor floating around school about a commercial that has all the girls talking. Which might explain why it took so long for me to hear about it. But some friends were adamant that we all had to see it and have a good laugh at the advertisement’s expense. I suppose it would have been humorous, from the outside.

I just watched it. Basically, it’s two people (man and woman) who are discussing the woman’s uncontrollable strength. While it was interesting that she was breaking things like I was, and while it was pretty chuckle worthy to think that an actor as fabulously flamboyant as that man could believably portray the actress’ husband, it was unsettling. The woman claimed to be having bizarre dreams, of being different girls in different periods of time. Like I’ve been having. Apparently, this has been happening to girls all over the world, some kind of rare condition. And there was help for them, in the form of a phone number. It stayed at the bottom of the screen from start to finish. I can’t get the hotline number out of my head. It’s so stupid but catchy that it does its job too well. Mike called me after the commercial aired to poke fun at me. He asked if there was something I wasn’t telling him. I told him no. There wasn’t anything I wasn’t telling him. He laughed and brushed it off. I’ll try to do the same. I have those symptoms, and I may have my secret inside of me.

But I’m not a girl.

I’m a boy.


	7. November 2003

November 10, 2003

I was attacked. I’ve taken to sneaking out of my room at night, when I want to avoid the nightmares, or I simply have too much energy to sleep. I don’t go far. Only a few miles. And our neighborhood is pretty safe and well lit. Or so I thought. My impressions were thrown in my face when someone grabbed me and threw me into the inky blackness of an alley devoid of street lamps.

I don’t know why I froze; I don’t know why I didn’t try to fight or even run. I can’t even remember seeing anything. And I sure as hell didn’t “sense” a damn thing. So much for my “super awareness,” crap. I just stood there. Like some kind of frightened child, closing my eyes against the disgusting breath and visceral growl he used. He said: “You smell good, boy,” and then he licked my neck.

I didn’t have the chance to scream. I didn’t even react except to ball my hands into fists in anxiety. It was that growl. His snarling sounded just like in my dreams. From the monsters. The vampires. And I knew, immediately, that vampires were real. I was about become one’s meal. I was sure I was going to die.

Then there was another voice. It was younger and lighter. It drew the vampire away. There were sounds like a fight, and then there was the scream. The scream of a vampire dying. It made me scramble into a little ball for protection. I could see the silhouette of a girl through my fingers. She whispered that it was alright now. She told me to get home. Then she left.

It took a few minutes before I got up and hurried out of the alley. On my way home, I could see a girl, the same girl I think, sitting on a sidewalk under the glare of a streetlight. She kept an eye and an easy smile on me as I hurried down the street.

When I got back into my room through the window, I grabbed this journal and a flashlight and I’ve been writing everything.

Vampires are real.

Those girls in my dreams might be real, too.

Vampires. Are. REAL.

If they’re real, then what the hell am I?

Holy shit…


	8. December 2003

December 21, 2003

The dreams have been getting worse. Not any more violent, but something about them has become more recurring. So far I can only see eyes. Two yellow, furious eyes. Eyes that never blink; they are looking right at me, and they appear again and again. No voice. No body to go with the eyes. No sound. Just those eyes. Looking at me with so much hatred.

That commercial keeps playing. Not like during the superbowl or anything, but every now and then, there’s the woman breaking the same old vase. And there’s her “husband” encouraging her to call 1-800-CHOSEN-1.

I called them.

I know. It sounds really dumb. But I need help understanding what’s going on. I mean, yeah, of course I wondered why this “condition” only effects girls, but surely if they can help girls, they might be able to help me. 

“Hello! And thank you for calling 1-800-CHOSEN-1! My name is Claudia, and we are here to help!”

“Um, thanks. I hope you can.”

“Oh, you bet we can! It’s what we do. Now, tell me, has your sister been exhibiting physical abilities that would seem extraordinary.”

“Well, no, it’s -.”

“Your daughter, then?”

“No, it’s -.”

“Or possibly a girlfriend? I can tell you’re the caring type!”

“Me! They’re happening to me! The being super strong, and the dreams. All of it. Please, can you help me?”

“You?”

Claudia sounded like this was impossible. She confirmed my gender and kindly, though with a hint of frustration, told me that I must have been mistaken. The condition she was supposed to help me with doesn’t happen to men. She accused me of prank calling because of the number from the advertisements, but she did stay on the line to hear me out in confessing that I was not, in fact, a prank caller.

“Okay, sir. I believe you. There’s just one problem. 1-800-CHOSEN-1 cannot help men with steroid misuse or psychological problems. I’d recommend seeing your doctor or a shrink. Have a good day, sir.”

I just stared at the phone after Claudia hung up.


	9. January 2004

January 3, 2004

Given it’s the holiday season I decided to wait until after the New Year. But this time, I didn’t take no for an answer. When I called the “Chosen One” hotline, I made sure to ask for Claudia. When she came on the line, she remembered me, and I asked for her to hear me out. Because the dreams have gotten worse.

I told her about the eyes in my dreams, and how they now seemed to be set in a white mask made of ashes. I told her that I am not on drugs; I even went to the doctor to have me tested and if they have a fax machine I will send the freaking results, but Claudia stopped me. She actually sounded concerned when I told her about the eyes. She said that the hotline might be able to help with my problems, seeing as how they “seem worth looking into.” She asked if I would be open to representative meeting me in person in a week. I gave her my home address and my cell number. Claudia said that I should be expecting a young woman to come to my house in seven days, and that someone might call to confirm before hand.

 

January 10, 2004

No one called to confirm, and with school coming up soon, I was worried that no one was coming. But around lunch time today, the front door bell dinged through the house. I was the only one home, because the parents had errands to run, so when I opened it, I was surprised to not only find the young woman as promised by Claudia, but that she was the beautiful blonde woman who led the other girls into battle in my dream. And instead of saying hello, I told her that she was in fact the girl of my dreams, or rather from my dreams.

The woman took the comment in stride and introduced herself as Buffy Summers. When I invited her inside, we sat in the kitchen and Buffy asked me to explain any of the unexplained things that might have happened to me since last May. I told her everything. She listened without saying a word, but she seems like the kind of girl who wears her emotions for all to see. She was confused and concerned when I told her about my superpowers. I told her about the girl who saved me from a vampire. She didn’t press the issue on those, though. Buffy wanted to know more about the dreams.

I told her I saw her leading the battle with the monsters from hell. I told her how I felt the rush and absorption of power. I described the red and silver axe thing that clearly belonged to her, but also felt like it belonged to me.

I told her about the dream when I was a Vedic princess fighting demons, worshipped as a goddess by my people.

I told her about the time I was a maiden in medieval times who defended a walled village from an army of vampires.

I told her when I was a Chinese girl fighting an obnoxious English vampire with a bad attitude. 

Then I was fighting that same vampire, with bleached blond hair, as a black woman in a subway in New York City.

Buffy said that she’s had all those dreams before too. To one extent or the other. She asked me to tell her about the eyes. So, I did. Buffy promised to explain, but she needed me to wait until tonight. I agreed and she asked me to meet her outside my house just after sundown. When I walked her out to her car, Buffy asked me to lift the rear of the car as much as I could.

And I did – remembering to lift with my legs. I brought bumper up to my chest, before I had to put it back down. Still, no normal human of my size would have been able to lift an SUV like I did. Buffy just nodded, still looking very confused, and reminded me of the time we were to meet. But she added to dress comfortably, before she drove away.

When I left my house a few hours ago, Buffy was already waiting for me. She was still as pretty as ever, but the way she was dressed and how she carried herself was every bit the warrior she was in my dream. Plus, holding that axe-thing in one hand helped with that image too. Buffy held it out to me, she said it’s a Scythe. Kills things pretty dead. When I held it, I knew it was mine, somehow. Buffy asked if I felt anything. I said the Scythe felt strong, ancient, and mine. Buffy nodded, took the Scythe back, put and locked it in her car and asked me to walk with her.

We walked and talked. She confirmed that vampires, demons, all things that go bump in the night are real. Still no word on leprechauns though… She said that demons have existed on earth since its beginning, and ever since there have been humans, there has been the Slayer. Buffy quoted something that she had been told since she was apparently fourteen:

“Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will have the strength and skill to face the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil, and quell the surge of their numbers. She is the Slayer.”

Heavy stuff. Buffy said she was “called” when she was a freshman in high school. What that means is some mystical unseen, unknown force chooses a random girl somewhere in the world with the potential to inherit the powers of the previous Slayer who just died. Again: heavy stuff. And Buffy had been fighting the forces of evil for almost ten years. In that time, she saved the world almost as many times. And she wasn’t bragging. Even though she’s died twice, and almost died countless other times, she seems very chill about the whole thing.

Now, I heard her say that “girls = Slayers” thing, but I had to know. I asked Buffy if I could be a Slayer. She said we were going to find out. When we ended up in a local cemetery, Buffy said while I might have the powers and the dreams, no Slayer has ever been a man. The First Slayer was a woman, and so has every Slayer since. Knowing that, I wondered, if I was a Slayer, could my secret be to blame? I also figured why we were in the cemetery, but I tried to hide my fear, wishing we had brought the Scythe with us. I’m not ashamed to say holding that thing in my hands made me feel safe.

Buffy taught me so much about the world I never even knew existed. I asked her about the times she saved the world. Buffy stopped an ancient vampire with a speech impediment from unleashing hell on Earth; she closed a world-sucking vortex opened by her ex-boyfriend; she blew up a politician who transmogrified into a gargantuan snake demon the size of a sky-scraper. She mentioned a man/demon/cyborg thing, a homesick hell god with a diva complex, and her own best friend who was a witch on the warpath. And the crater that was Sunnydale was because Buffy had to beat down something she called The First Evil. I asked if she meant Satan, she said “not really, no.” To fight the First, Buffy had her best friend, that same witch who turned back to good after she didn’t fry the whole planet, work some magic to make all the potential Slayers into actual Slayers. That was the same day when I had my impromptu collision course with the lockers.

Buffy told me all of these things sitting cross-legged on an old head stone while I listened on the grass. Still, no vampires were showing up, and the opportunity to prove I was a Slayer was fading with every passing hour. I thought I’d be in the clear until Buffy tensed and shouted for me to get down. I did, and Buffy launched herself over me to tackle a vampire that had been trying to creep on us in the shadows. With hardly any effort, Buffy restrained the snarling monster and gripped him tight enough to make his bark become a whimper.

“You know who I am? Or rather what I am?”

The vampire nodded, with a worried look.

“Well, how about him?”

The vampire eyed me and upon being released stalked forward hungrily. I shouted to Buffy, asking what I was supposed to do. “Survive,” and that’s all she said. The vampire grabbed at my shirt, but I knocked his hands away. I ducked from an angry punch and scurried to put a headstone between us. The vampire looked back at Buffy. She was watching me intently with her arms crossed, not moving. Turning back to me with a toothy grin, the vampire launched himself over the headstone, but I shoved him away in mid-air. He struck his head hard against the thick stone and tumbled to the ground. But he was getting to his feet without so much as a bump on his head.

“Vampires feel pain, but they shake it off and fight through it.”

The vampire dashed forward at Buffy’s words and I jumped, spun, dodged and blocked the flurry of his blows as best I could. But I wasn’t very good. Three consecutive punches knocked the wind out of me and made me see stars. The stars exploded when I felt the cold tongue and painful pricks of fangs on my neck. But the vampire didn’t bite down; Buffy had grabbed the scruff of his collar and hurled him away. She helped me to my feet with eyes deadly serious.

“They’re real,” She said as I touched the tiny holes at my throat, “And so is he, but he’s a demon now. You can’t hold back when you’re both fighting to survive. So don’t.”

And as the demon in a man suit charged once again, I sidestepped his advance and landed a hard punch right in his gut. Remembering that he would shake off the pain, I swung my arm out and brought my elbow down on his neck while he was still keeled over. He dropped like a load of bricks and I gave him two swift kicks to the stomach before stepping back to let him rise. I was still scared, but I was learning, and I was sure that Buffy wouldn’t let me die.

“What the hell are you, boy?”

The vampire asked through winded fangs. The smart thing to do would’ve been to run, but the vampire was hungry and angry. He wasn’t thinking straight. He seemed to run right into my fist, he was so angry. I wailed on the vampire as best I could, but eventually I realized I didn’t have a stake or a weapon of any kind to finish him. Buffy tapped my shoulder with a wooden stake. I took her offering and after throwing the vampire to the ground once more, I slammed the piece of wood home and watched the creature explode into a pile of dust.

When I turned to Buffy triumphant, I felt my elation vanish at her worried demeanor. She said she needed to speak with my parents. She said I might not be going back to school this year.

 

January 18, 2004

Buffy was right: I didn’t go back to school. Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled that I was basically being shipped overseas to England to attend what was essentially an all-girl military academy to fight the supernatural. Still, they listened when Buffy explained it was the best way to keep everyone safe, including me. They also believed her when I effortlessly lifted their grand dining room table above my head. It wasn’t easy saying goodbye to them and Mike and my other friends who were completely blindsided by this “scholarship opportunity,” but letters and phone calls wouldn’t be against the rules at Slayer HQ, so we would stay in contact. Mike jokingly encouraged me to “go for it” as we hugged goodbye and Buffy waited for me to go with her through security at the airport. He waggled his eyebrows and I told him to shove it, but he just laughed and promised to talk soon.

That was two days ago. When Buffy and I landed in the countryside with a looming castle in the near distance, I thought I was still dreaming. I met a few of the other Slayers, all of whom gossiped and whispered about me, but I’ve been keeping to my private chambers. Most of the other girls share a room two or three at a time, but not me. I’m special.

But am I a Slayer? That’s still unknown.

Buffy employs a few wiccans responsible for magical protection and healing, one’s apparently going to be my tutor to finish my high school education, but none of them have the requisite knowledge, or as they put it: “intimacy” with the Slayer’s power to know for certain if I’m a Slayer. That’ll happen when the Scooby Gang arrives. All of Buffy’s friends and loved ones helping Slayers around the world coming together to study me under a metaphorical microscope.

I also met Dawn, Buffy’s little sister who is mystical but she’s not a Slayer. Apparently, there was a scare last year that she was a potential, but nope, just the human form of limitless energy that serves to break down the barriers between all heavenly and hellish dimensions connected to the planet Earth. Dawn’s very nice and very, very pretty, but she’s a little too far out of my league, considering she’s going to college in California in a few weeks. Trans-Atlantic crushes don’t have much chance of working out. Plus, I’m pretty sure that Buffy is a lot stronger than me, and yeah, really don’t want to mess with that. Dawn assured me that everything was going to be all right. She said that the Scoobies would make sure that all questions were answered. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried about what those answers are.

 

January 25, 2004

All but one of my kindly inquisitors has arrived, and Willow Rosenberg is supposed to “pop in” before the end of the afternoon. I’m told that “pop in” is essentially teleporting by Xander Harris, an eye-patch sporting funny man who arrived three days ago. The English and dignified Rupert Giles corrected Xander saying “it isn’t teleporting, Xander. It is a highly advanced magical technique that allows the caster to fold two points of reality between moments in time, making it seem like they teleported, when really all they did was magically shorten the space they had to travel.” Mr. Giles seemed pleasantly impressed when I compared the magical form of travel to the role of the navigators of the Dune series. He wanted to discuss the novels with me later; they were among his favorite works of science fiction too.

Buffy, Xander, Rupert Giles, and Willow. Strange names for even stranger people. But it is clear that there is love between them. Love and loss that they have all carried each other through. Apparently there’s a few other individuals who have history with the group, but they couldn’t be pulled away from their locations. Not even for a possible male Slayer; Buffy commented that Faith asked if I was a cutie, though. When I asked about her, Buffy, Xander and Giles urged me to keep my distance, in no uncertain terms.

Willow did arrive earlier than expected. Didn’t see her magical appearance, but upon meeting her, a lovely redhead with an easy smile who wore a dress that seemed to be made from nature Herself, she hardly seemed like the type to try to incinerate the planet. She shook my hand with gusto, remarking on her surprise at hearing about me. And she turned to her friends after looking into my eyes saying that I was in fact a Slayer. The powers of the Slayer had attached themselves to me and had been growing stronger since last May. But when they asked her how that was possible, even the woman-who-would-be-goddess was stumped. There was talk about tests, of the medical variety; I’m less than thrilled.

 

January 26, 2004

Test after test after test… after test. That was my day. Magical, medical, strength, reflex, you name the test, I did it today. I’m exhausted, and there’s more tomorrow. I’m wondering if I should just tell them. Tell them everything. About my secret. My secret I keep inside; my secret I suspect is what allowed the Slayer powers to manifest in me. And my secret that makes me scared to close my eyes at night. Not really all that much of a secret. Everyone here knows that I have the dreams, and Buffy asked if the eyes have come back or have gotten worse. 

I’ve lied…

They never left. And they’ve gotten worse. Those eyes stare out of the darkness, out of the nothingness of my mind, and speak encyclopedic volumes of their owner’s hatred of me. Those eyes housed deep in a face painted in white paint and ash. The mask in the shape of some tribal skull. I cannot see anything else still; only the white paste cracked and peeling coupled with the glaring yellow orbits. But I know then every night, and I think I see them in the shadows and the corners of my eyes during the day.

I try to convince myself that I am not afraid. I argue that if the eyes could hurt me, they would’ve by now.

I know I’ll have to come clean eventually…


	10. February 2004

February 1, 2004

Well, my secret is out; it’s funny that all my reservations were mostly all for naught. Willow wanted to perform a spell that would essentially let her travel with my blood and examine every inch of me, both physical and metaphysical. It turns out that Willow can be telepathic when she wants to be, but out of professional and common courtesy, she stays out unless invited. Still, I think she had her suspicions. Maybe one of the goddesses she calls on in her incantations whispered the truth to her.

Apparently though, Buffy and Willow are so close that at times, the magic makes them be of one mind. Xander says that it can happen for him too, but only when he’s asleep, and only at the worst possible moments, like during his lesbian fantasy dreams. Willow smiled and said that only happened twice and Buffy rolled her eyes saying that twice was enough. Willow has a theory that if Buffy and Xander practiced a little magic, the connection between them would be virtually unbreakable, but Buffy says she already has enough power, being the strongest Slayer in the world. And Xander says it’s best for everyone if he stays away from the magics… Everyone in the world, that is. Mr. Giles was in agreement, muttering something about a love spell.

So, yeah, Willow’s body scan spell. She found my secret. She was stunned speechless and had to whisper for Giles to confirm with an x-ray of my navel. I embarrassingly sat on a medical table while the Scooby Gang stared in wonder at my x-ray. Buffy and Xander needed clarification on what they were looking at. But now they all know. They can all see plain as an x-rayed day.

My secret.

My uterus.

I was born as, what science calls, intersexed. I was born with a female sexual characteristic as well as my male ones. Most intersexed individuals are pretty rare, only one in ten newborns have a characteristic or two. Most of those are pretty minor and most like mine are inside of the body, and they only know about them by looking.

But I was raised as a boy; I identify as male, as a man. I always have. But I’ve always been simultaneously proud and ashamed of my uterus. Proud that I was special, different, and inherently more than just a man. Ashamed that I didn’t even tell Mark, my best friend. 

I remember that Giles was the first to look away. He took off his glasses to clean them, squinting at me, and smiling in amazement. “Extraordinary,” he’d said over and over, “It’s extraordinary.” Here I was, predominantly biologically male with all potential and appendages necessary to reproduce as a man, but there was something else. Something female. Mr. Giles explained that, genetically, men and women are virtually identical. All physical traits that men and women have are either the same or have a functionally identical trait that only appears different. But it is woman that has something else, something more, something that makes them more than any man. A uterus: the womb of life. And I happened to be born with that something. Something that was enough for the powers of the Vampire Slayer to bond to me. Making me, in effect, the first male Slayer since the earliest days of humanity.

I braced myself for the judgment and bizarre looks, but they didn’t come. Not from Buffy or her friends, and none of the other Slayers. They were too amazed and fascinated that this had happened at all. According to the Watchers’ Council who guided the Slayers before being blown to smithereens in the war against the First Evil, my existence was absolutely unthinkable. Not in a negative way, just that it was assumed impossible; in fact, they never considered it a possibility at all. In a world filled where magic, demons, and gods are real, I was considered impossible…


	11. March 2004

March 20, 2004

Tests are done, and training’s begun. Well, it’s been going on since I arrived, but it’s become an all-day affair. Willow and Mr. Giles have been working together to perform scientific and magical tests on my DNA. They said I didn’t need to be there for the tests, which was a major relief for me. So, for the past couple of weeks I’ve been working with Buffy and the rest of the Slayers on training. I’ve actually become pretty good friends with a few of the girls: Dona, Setsuya, and Trill. Trill won’t tell me, or any of us, her real name. 

Dona and Trill were very open to my intersexed identity; they didn’t look at me funny or treat me any different. Dona said that it’s kind of the same as being two-spirit like some Native American tribes or the Hijra in Hindu culture and Trill’s a gender-fluid pansexual who said that anything’s possible, so why not embrace the possibility. Setsuya is kind of the odd-girl out among the three of them, but she’s one of the strongest and most talented Slayers in Buffy’s brigade, and besides Buffy, Setsuya’s been my primary instructor and sparing partner. The four of us have already been dispatched on missions together. Only two, and only BP (basic patrolling), but still I’ve vanquished my fifth vampire yesterday, and Trill and I beat an escaping Urthulaw demon into a pulp. Well, it was actually pretty much a pulp when it was alive, but you know what I mean. It was ugly; seriously, like a slithering pile of puss. And we punched it, repeatedly, until it was dead. Took a long, long time. 

Still, I am having a lot of fun. Slayers fight evil. We keep people safe from evil. And I think I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m still getting stronger and faster every day. I’ve really started bulking and putting some serious muscle on. We talk about our dreams sometimes; I’ve tried to find out if any of them see the eyes, but it seems like I’m the only one… At least the dreams haven’t gotten any worse, and I’ve been able to focus on being the best Slayer I can be. If I can be the best, maybe the dreams will stop? I can’t claim to know that for sure, but… just a feeling.


	12. April 2004

April 3, 2004

I don’t know what’s going on with me…

I… I hurt Setsuya, but I didn’t mean to!

It was the dream; it was the eyes! But there was more… this time… I saw the eyes; I saw the flaking mask of ash…

And I saw the teeth… I saw cracked and bleeding lips, black as night, pulled back to show horrific, rotting teeth snarling and raging in my mind. The terrifying face was framed by dirty locks of twisted hair, thick and wild. The eyes no longer stared; they were blinking and narrowing to murderous slits. The face erupted out of the black shadows and roared into my mind with a feral primordial noise that apparently made me scream in my sleep.

I was screaming and thrashing in my bed…

I kept crying out saying: “She’s going to kill me! Oh, God, keep her away from me! SHE IS GOING TO KILL ME!!!”

Buffy, Setsuya, Dona and Trill burst into my room along with the entire castle, it seemed when I woke up. Buffy and Setsuya tried to wake me up, but I just wailed about and screamed bloody murder. When I felt their hands on me, I… I hit them…

Buffy went flying into the crowd of pajama clad Slayers knocking them all down as they caught her. Setsuya wasn’t so lucky; I sent her slamming into the wall, leaving a serious dent in the stone. And, I broke Setsuya’s elbow…

It took freezing water and good solid punch in the jaw to finally wake me up. When I heard what I’d done, I raced to the infirmary and couldn’t apologize enough to Setsuya. She said she had already forgiven me, but she was in a lot of pain… I retreated to the courtyard and huddled under a tree. Buffy found me, and held me close as I whimpered in fear from the phantom image that still plagued my mind’s eye. Buffy asked me what I was dreaming about. I told her about the face, the face of the woman who’s been staring at me in my mind of almost a year. Buffy looked more worried than I had ever seen her. She said it was time to figure out what was going on with me.

 

April 5, 2004

Willow came almost immediately after Buffy called her. Together, they brought me down to a special point, what Willow called a Nexus that was away from the castle and near the seashore. Willow said that, with a relatively simple spell, she could prepare a mystical anchor to the Nexus, keeping the three of us “grounded” while we journeyed into my mind. Willow also mentioned that the spell would take a little time. She nodded to Buffy before closing her eyes and began slowly rising into the air, mediating and preparing her spell. As we watched, bright lavender lines appeared and glowed barely an inch above the grass; they formed intricate lines and patterns, expanding out with Willow in the center. 

Buffy motioned for me to walk with her to let Willow work. Buffy wanted to tell me a story. She said that the thing I was seeing, the woman I was dreaming about was the First Slayer. I don’t know why that threw me for a loop, but it did. Of course, the Slayers had to start with someone, but I never really thought about it. Buffy said she was guilty of that as well. She told me that she had dealt with the First Slayer before, more than once. And when the primal creature wasn’t trying to kill her, Buffy said the First Slayer helped her from time to time. 

But she didn’t know why the First Slayer was a recurring night terror for me. It wasn’t a vision of the past, or a premonition of the future, but there she was night after night. I asked Buffy what happened to the girl, the original Slayer:

“I don’t think it was her choice; I don’t even think they bothered to explain it to her. She was chosen by these shamans, these three Shadow Men, to be their weapon against the demons. They chained her to the earth and invoked the essence of an Old One, a pure demon, and infused her with it. The heart of the demon gave the girl unparalleled strength and speed – all of our powers. But it made her into an uncontrollable animal, void of humanity, that those evil men couldn’t control. She was alone and wandered the land, living only to hunt and kill vampires and demons wherever she found them.”

I asked Buffy how she knew all of this. She smiled the saddest smile I’d ever seen her wear.

“Because those Shadow Men tried to do the same to me.”

Buffy told me that she believed the blood-red Scythe of the Slayer was forged for her, the First of us. It might have been made much the same: a simple thing made impossibly great through the powers of a pure demon. But, Buffy couldn’t offer a reason why the First Slayer hates me so much. Willow called out for Buffy using their link, and we rejoined the witch-goddess stepping onto, not into, her dazzling display of violet light. She instructed me to lie in the center of the display; doing so, I felt the light, warm and calm and full of raw creative power, bend and reshape itself to cradle me. When I involuntarily remarked on what I was feeling, Willow grinned and explained that the Goddess, the manifestation of the planet, is more easily accessed at a Nexus, a point of natural and mystical convergence. Her spell would ensure that the three of them, the Slayer, the witch, and the Goddess would keep me safe as we went into my mind for answers.

I believed her.

Willow knelt down at my head and, with her lap as a pillow, I felt the playful tickling of magical energy brimming from her fingertips as she held her hands to my temples. I closed her eyes at her instruction, and listened as she told Buffy to take my right hand in hers and to place her left over my heart. I was glad my eyes were already closed… 

I’m… I know it’s impossible, and wrong, and will never ever happen. But, I can’t help but wonder what if…? I’ve never been in love, after all…

Willow began chanting in a language I didn’t understand, but when she switched to English, I felt the current of power surge through the three of us, drawing from all things to center inside my head. This was the spell:

“The power of the Slayer and all who wield it.  
Last to ancient First, we invoke thee.  
Grant us sanctuary and safe haven.  
Accept us and the powers we possess.  
Make us mind and heart and spirit enjoined.  
Let the chosen encompass us. Learn thy will.  
By the generous will of the Ancients, the almighty power of Goddess Divine…  
Your supplicants humbly beseech thee to behold us, and that which we possess…   
Bring us together, let all secrets be known, let the truth be made light.”

The only reason I remembered all of that, was as soon as Willow finished reciting I could see them both in my mind, and Willow’s words repeated in a whisper over and over without her voice, permitting the spell to continue manifesting. Willow and Buffy, in my mind, searched the encroaching blackness for a sign of the First Slayer. But I could feel her, I knew where she would appear, and I just stood there staring and waiting. Buffy took notice of my gaze and moved to stand before me. Only with her guarding me did an animalistic woman, with the same terrifying face as my dreams, step out of the void. She wore tattered swaths of filthy white cloth and carried a single twisted and gnarled stake. The First Slayer stood tall, studying us with eyes much wiser than her appearance would suggest. Buffy tried to call out to her, but in my mind, Buffy has no voice.

It was Willow who spoke with me, or rather through me. She took my psychic hand and made my mind her microphone to address the predatory nightmare. Willow asked for understanding from the First Slayer, asking her to explain why she was terrorizing me. But the woman said nothing. She merely stared and began strafing around the field of our vision. Buffy followed her, staying between the aggressor and her prey. Willow called out, again and again. She even offered a spell or two to loosen the First Slayers lips, but nothing was working.

Still, watching her, made manifest in my mind did bring some confusion to rest. I could finally see this timeless and tortured warrior of countless millennium past. I could see her wear and tear, her carriage, and her scars. And she could see me. That exchange was enough for me to know that the First Slayer did not just hate me, I disgusted her. I was a terrible affront to her. An abomination that shouldn’t be. And more than that, she seemed to hunger for cruelty. To break me down piece by piece until there was nothing left. I could feel that this desire was new to the Slayer; she wasn’t built to be cruel, but she wanted to be. And only for me. Only to me. She wanted to ruin everything about me, beyond repair and hope. 

When Willow resigned that the First Slayer would tell us nothing, only then did she attack. But Buffy had dealt with her primordial predecessor before, and she was ready. Willow called through me to Buffy to keep the threat at bay while she put up safeguards. I watched the two of them clash while Willow walked a slow circle around me, mouthing words to make the air shimmer and shine around me before hardening and thickening, blurring my sight of this dark place where the First Slayer hid in my mind. Buffy struck at her opponent with controlled grace; she moved with practiced and educated ease. Still, the First Slayer proved her equal. She lashed out and struck with instinctual ferocity that would terrify any of the wild beasts of the world. I saw what she was capable of; I saw the power that felled the last pure demon of this world. I witnessed what she could do to me.

Willow took my hand once more, and I called out to Buffy. She abandoned the fight and hurried toward us, passing through the translucent barrier without resistance. The First Slayer was nothing more than a haze of a humanoid figure. Her frightening visage was just a blur. But she couldn’t make it past the barrier; she couldn’t even touch it from another that barred her way. She was angry, that much was very much apparent.

We jolted from the vision with a start; the magical effects left me a growing headache and a feeling of dry mouth. Willow lowered the purple lights and they faded into the ground. She dusted off her dress and promised me she would find a solution. Until then, though, the mental barricades she put up in my mind should keep the First Slayer from invading my dreams.

It is only now that I write this I’m wondering what’s to stop her from getting to other parts of me.

 

April 23, 2004

We’re on a mission. Well, we finished the mission and we’re heading back to HQ. Flying in a private jet, no one speaks to me. I don’t really blame them for being afraid. I remember what I did. I remember flying into a rage and swinging my weapon wildly, out of control. I remember seeing every face of every vampire become like her’s. The First Slayer. I just wanted to wipe them out. And I did. Still, no one important was hurt. Mission complete.


	13. May 2004

May 1, 2004

I’ve been training, but alone or with Buffy. She’s the only one strong enough to handle me now during sparing sessions. She’s always willing to talk. She reminds me again and again that she’s there for me, but I don’t and I can’t. I don’t get chosen for missions anymore. That’s fine. I’d rather not risk the others’ safety if a demon is going to make me crazy. At least with them, they look human. And at least the dreams are… better. There’s only her silhouette beyond Willow’s magic. She can’t get through. So, she waits.

 

May 22, 2004

One year, and I’ve become the guy I’ve seen in my dreams. All that training, all that fighting has made me strong and solid. My hair is short; my face is hard and handsome, but virtually unrecognizable after everything that I’ve seen. One year, and I’m sleeping with a knife under my pillow. One year, and I’m stronger than any man should ever be. One year, and I’m secluding myself more and more from my friends, the Slayers, the women. One year, and I’m still changing. I’m changing, and I’m not sure I like it. I keep myself away from them. I don’t want to hurt them. I won’t let myself.


	14. June 2004

June 19, 2004

I’ve done something. Something bad, but maybe it wasn’t bad. She said she was fine. That it was fine. I liked it. But it didn’t help much. Not for very long. I had to get out of the castle. I’ve been in forced seclusion for too long. I’ve been feinting sickness, lying to be left alone. I’ve been really… well, horny. Like, all the time. I shouldn’t be, not this much; it can’t be healthy. And I can’t seem to take care of it myself.

I figured a walk would help. I didn’t have any intension of making it to the local village and hailing a cab into the city. But, I did. I made it to the city, and went to the very worst possible place. No drinking age limit in England. Not for someone who’s eighteen going on nineteen, anyway. I ordered a beer; I figured it was common enough. And I still secluded myself to a booth in the back, alone.

That is until I finished my drink and looked across the way to see a man and a woman. Something was off; my training didn’t fail me. I followed them outside and once I heard the tell-tale growl, I grabbed a collar and sent the vampire flying down the alley. The man looked on in fear, but when I told him to run, he ran.

The vampire and I fought, but I intentionally drew it out. Playing with her, cornering her. I think my reasoning was to let off steam; burn away the feelings and dread. Didn’t do much good. I think I was just having fun.

The animal was beaten and withdrawn; wearing her human face, she asked why I didn’t just kill her. And so did another woman, who spun me about and sent me reeling back with a powerful roundhouse. I slammed into a stack of delivery boxes, splintering them under me. My attacker hurried to the vampire, caught unawares, until the creature sprung up and rushed past her. The woman, the other Slayer, was very fast; she caught the vampire by the shoulders the same moment I drove a splintered piece of crate through the demon’s chest. The Slayer took a moment to stare at me confused with big brown eyes, but when the ashy remains had cleared, she was on the attack.

She was strong; too fast for me to dodge, and every hit she landed on me felt as powerful as Buffy. She roared unashamedly, throwing herself entirely into battle. She took every hit I unleashed and used my size to her advantage. I fought her as fiercely as I fought any demon, even though a part of me knew what she was. Ally or no, I held nothing back. Eventually, I got the woman pinned to the wall, pressing myself against her back. She writhed and growled against me, muttering harsh words to insult me. I felt myself getting hard with my body pressed to hers; I inhaled the scent of her lush brown hair and sighed with want. That was when she slammed her head back against my nose.

It was the blow I needed to reclaim some sense. She punched my face again for good measure and whipped her wavy locks from her face with a defiant glare.

“You’ll get none of that!”

She made to attack me again, but she stopped when she realized I was unwilling to fight, terrified of myself, ashamed of my reaction to holding her in my grasp, imprisoned against the alley walls, with our forms so close together. I wanted her; I wanted to take her. I liked that she fought me; I liked that I was strong enough to take her. I hated my hands; I hated my manhood; I hated the animal I feared I was becoming.

“Hey,” The Slayer knelt down, “You’re him, aren’t you?”

I didn’t want to look into her curious, lilted eyes, but she seemed determined to catch my gaze. 

“B didn’t say you’d be out and about, but it looks like you’ve learned to dish it out as much as you can take it.”

I watched her tease at a faint bruise forming on her jaw. I wanted to apologize, but all I could focus on was the curve of her lips. I glanced away again, trying to distance myself from her. She wasn’t stupid, this woman. She knew what I was, what I wanted from her in the thrill of our fight. But, she wasn’t afraid.

“Come on, up and at ‘em, dude,” She offered a hand, “Let’s get inside, sit this out. I’m Faith, by the way. Nice to meet you, kid.”

I didn’t take her hand, but I did let Faith lead me into the pub once more. She took me to the same booth I sat in earlier and returned a few minutes later with a couple mugs overflowing with dark, foaming liquid. She sat one down in front of me before sitting herself and downing her pint in one long swig. She watched me for a while, not talking. I stared at the offered temptation on the table. I didn’t touch it.

“If you’re not going to have that?”

I pushed the mug to Faith, but this one she took her time with. She sipped and sipped and sipped some more. She finished the second mug; she continued watching me. I whispered my apology, forcing it out like a tortured secret.

“Hey man, I’m five-by-five; you’re the one’s a bit messed up right now. Believe me, I’ve been there. Dark places, man, why do we Slayers always got to find ourselves in them?”

“You’re Faith?”

“That’s what my mom named me. Why? I’ll never know.”

“Buffy said you’d be coming to do some kind of big meeting.”

“Yep, but I caught an earlier flight; figured I’d get some of that English flavor folks seem so keen on. Gotta say, minus the beer and bar brawls, England isn’t my cup o’ tea. Figured I’d get to meet you at H.Q. So, that was something out there, huh?”

I flinched at the thought.

“Little out of left, considering I thought you were sporting fangs at first.”

“I’m not a vampire!” I hissed at the offensive thought.

“No, you’re not,” Faith leaned in closer to meet my angered gaze, “But, you’re not exactly in the best of places right now.”

My eyes flicked down to see her breasts, hidden under her tight black shirt, but more visible now that she leaned forward. Faith backed off, and I moved my line of sight to her face. She had a wild kind of beauty: raw and uninhibited when she wanted to be. We watched each other for a time; I lost myself in my subconscious fantasies, unaware even when Faith rose and took my hand. She led me back to the W.C. and pulled me inside. I only became aware when she began fiddling with the buckle of my belt. She kissed me, hard and persistent. She slipped my belt from around my waist, and deftly moved to unbutton my pants. As the garment loosened from my frame, I kissed her back, and I lost myself in her.

I don’t even remember much about it; it was rough and probably too loud for a public washroom, but we weren’t interrupted. At least, I never registered a knock at the door. I pulled away from Faith in a daze; she was still breathing heavily when she grabbed a handful of paper towels and silently collected her clothes. I clutched at the sink and stared at the shell-shocked stranger that was reflected back at me. My shirt was open and new marks were visible on my collarbone and chest. Faith nudged my ankle with her foot, and I looked to her mirrored image on the floor. She was dressing and looking up at me with a mixture of concern and wariness. The sight of her there, below me and half-naked awoke the desire inside me again.

I hurried to the door, buttoning my shirt and pants with fumbling fingers. Her voice stopped me.

“Hey,” She said, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

As much as I wanted to believe her, I knew she was lying.

I left her there, in the washroom, running through the dark streets, disheveled and ashamed at my cowardice. I walked, I ran, and I clutched at my head, trying to deny the thoughts I was having. Some sick and savage part of me wanted to go back. I wanted to take Faith again, and every woman in that bar, again and again. I wanted to beat their men and prove my strength. I wanted to hunt. Hunt for food and for the thrill. I wanted to bring fear to vampires and spend every night reveling in the fight, in sex, in myself.

Faith beat me to H.Q. it seemed. She caught a cab; I walked. Her voice echoed softly through the halls as I snuck my way through the front door. She was speaking with Buffy; they were talking about me.

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Five-by-five, B,” Faith sounded tired, “Not so sure about your boy, though.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Buffy sounded worse.

“You didn’t see him, Buffy,” Faith was defending me, “You don’t know how hard he was fighting.”

“Looks like he fought plenty hard to me.”

“That was just a misunderstanding.”

I crept closer to the slightly ajar study door to peer inside, cloaked in the shadow of the hall. Buffy was leaning against an elaborate antique desk with her arms crossed pensively. Faith had draped herself into a leather arm chair, her left leg hanging over the arm rest.

“I’m not blaming him for what happened,” Buffy’s eyes were closed, “And I’m not blaming you. It’s just…”

“There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?” Faith asked, “I could see it in his face. I’ve had that look for years, saw it on plenty of inmates in the slammer; not a look you forget and it’s even harder to lose. I was watching him before the fight, praying to drown the demons in booze. It wouldn’t have been enough.”

“He’s…slipping, Faith. I’m afraid he’s going to become dangerous.”

“Figured that, too. That’s why I let him. Better to have him syphon away some of that edge before he falls off of it. Better it be with someone who can handle him; who can stop him from going too far. The way he was itchin’, seemed like he’d have ended up hurting some poor girl before the night was through. Didn’t want to take that chance.”

“Thank you, Faith. I’m sorry, but thanks.”

“No worries, B. Well, maybe some. You got any sorta clue about what’s goin’ on with him?”

“Kind of, but Willow’ll have to work some magic to be sure,” Buffy walked over to the window, her golden hair turned platinum in the moonlight, “He dreams about her. The First Slayer. She’s in his mind, literally. She scares him. Scares me, too.”

“Damn.”

“I don’t know what to do. He’s a good guy, Faith. Everyone here knows he is.”

“Yeah, he wants to be good. I know. Could see that in how hard he was fighting himself, but, well, everyone has their limits.”

“I’ve got to help him. I promised him, his family, that I would keep him safe. We’ve taught him to fight, Giles has been helping him finish his schooling. He mediates at Willow’s instruction, Xander’s always there to listen, and so am I.”

“Can’t just treat the symptoms, B. Which is why, after our meet and greet tomorrow, I’m out.”

“I figured,” Buffy did, but I didn’t.

“He wanted to go a second round right away. Wasn’t surprised, and would’ve let him if he stuck around, but I can’t stay. He’ll get attached if I do, and that’s no good. Can’t take too much of him, to be honest. Never been with anyone as strong as…us. Little too intense, even for me. Been cravin’ an American bacon double cheeseburger anyways.”

That was all I heard, I’d already started creeping away once Faith admitted that I’d become attached to her. She was right; I could already feel my mind obsessing over her, even since I left her in the pub. I hurried down into the darkened barracks beneath the castle and barred myself inside my dorm at the end of the hall. I don’t know how long Buffy and Faith continued their talk after I left, but it was long enough to succumb to carnal temptation. I pleasured myself with thoughts of Faith’s body, but the name that passed soundlessly from my lips was Buffy’s.


	15. Ending

October 14, 2004

I feel sick, all the time. Doctors can’t help. Nothing helps. Not magic, either. My head isn’t right. I do things that are wrong. I think bad things. Things I don’t want to think. But some part of me does. They’re all afraid of me now. All the Slayers aren’t my friends anymore. They’re scared. They can’t stop me. Too strong. Too fast. I chase. I bring them low. In my mind, I take what I want from them and cry in my corner because I can’t stop the bad dreams. They play again and again and again and… again. They cry, they scream, they fight…and die…

She’s the only thing that makes it better. She smiles at me. She plays with me. She isn’t afraid. She says I can get better. She promises to help me. She stops the pounding. I can’t see the bad wants when she is with me. She isn’t bad. She promises me that I’m not bad. She tells me I’m good. I’m good when Buffy’s here. She isn’t always though. Then, it gets bad again.

 

Note: The following entry takes place the between the 5th and 6th of November, 2004.

Bad bad bad Im bad Buffy I wont be bad dont want to be bad Buffy I will be bad  
She knows always knows always sees always there always and makes me bad  
Did a bad thing so sorry Buffy so bad and sorry will do bad again wrong bad evil evil inside of me get it out cut it out make the bad boy go away 

 

Note: This marks the end of any coherent entries of this journal. All remaining pages had been either torn to shreds, are the scribbling of madman, or are disturbed pictures drawn in ink and blood that plagued a poor boy’s broken mind. Before the end, before he was more animal than man, one name was written again and again, page after page: Buffy. The deceased passed on November the 13, in the year 2004. He has been laid to rest under a simple grave. His headstone reads:

Here Rests Brett William Maloney  
April 27, 1986 – November 13, 2004  
Beloved Son, Friend and Slayer  
A Man Who Was One of a Kind


	16. Epilogue

December 1, 2004

So, it’s been a couple weeks since Brett passed, but… I guess I just wanted to get a few more words in before ending his story. Because that story isn’t over and even though we’ve moved on, gotten back into a routine, put the past behind us, the story goes on because his story is our story. We’re all Slayers, after all. 

My name’s Buffy Summers and I know my name’s been written down a lot in this journal, but I’m going to try and write this last entry as a testament to my friend. Because Brett wasn’t bad. He fought until the end not to be. He wouldn’t let the First Slayer or the demonic source of his power or some other mystical mumbo jumbo stop him from being anything less than what he wanted to be. Which is good. And he was good.

Before Brett tried to kill himself, to me it seemed like his condition was finally tapering. He was almost like a little kid, playing with toys and giggling with the other Slayers. They were treating him like a little boy, and that seemed to be what he was becoming. The more violent episodes were further and further between and they seemed to be almost predictable. Brett’s regression was obvious and he was still a Slayer, but it was better than having him wake screaming and thrashing every night with no one able to comfort him until he calmed himself down.

On the evening of the 4th, he and I were sparring. Brett called it playing, and it seemed to work like a kind of meditation for him. But, every once and while, he would have another episode. And like Faith said, I was really the only one who could handle him now. But when he backed me against the training room wall and looked at me like he did, I’d have to admit I was worried. At first, he just looked, his hands trapping me in place as he rested them on the wall next to my shoulders. Brett just looked at me, staring at my breasts, my arms, my neck, my waist. When he moved to touch me, he was gentle. He barely touched the skin on my arms and he leaned in to timidly sniff my hair, drenched in sweat. He told me I was “pretty.” He only said “pretty.” But I knew it was going too far. Brett wasn’t even aware of himself when I told him to let me go. He just kept whispering “pretty” and his lips brushed against my collarbone. He only started back to himself when I told him he was hurting me.

Brett looking into my eyes, so close and so hurt at the very thought. He shook his head and promised with a word: “Never.” I realized he didn’t understand, so I glanced down to my wrist, that he held in his grasp. I wasn’t actually in pain, but there was some discomfort. I was concerned because he had no concept of his own strength anymore, and when he released me, he looked at his own hand like it was something demonic. I wanted to calm him, to talk to him, to explain that no harm was done, that he had stopped himself, but something in him broke. The tears welled up in terrified eyes; they fell down his cheeks as his body racked from his sobs. He shook his head from side to side, holding his temples with defensive fists. I wanted to reach him, hold him, but he screeched and scrambled away from me. He whimpered in his terror, not of me, but of himself. The struggle seemed to expand and expand inside of him until he wrapped himself into a ball to keep it contained. I backed away, leaving plenty of space between us, but never stopped looking to him, so no matter what he felt, he knew I wouldn’t leave him. When he finally calmed enough to go back to his room, Brett walked with me in a silent, defeated weakness. His last word to me was an apology.

We found him in his room like always, but on the morning of the 6th, we entered a room painted with blood and found Brett lying in a pool of it. His arms were torn open in jagged lines by his own fingernails and he had collapsed to the ground muttering the same words that he had smeared on the walls again and again: “get it out.”

He lost a lot of blood. Actually, it was too much; by the time we got him to the infirmary and stabilized him, he had already slipped into a comatose state from blood loss. But his eyes stayed open, unseeing and blinking only for moisture at irregular intervals. He didn’t want to see her, even subconsciously, he was terrified of her. He never woke up.

We had doctors come to see him, we brought healers from around the world to try any bring him back, but nothing we tried would rouse him. Willow and I even went into his mind again; we arrived outside the mystical barrier that Willow had cast within him, standing on either side of the First Slayer. I tried to fight her, but it was like she didn’t even notice us. She just stared at the swirling lavender and crimson fog that was Willow’s spell and absently twirled her gnarled wooden stake. She looked all the part of a caged beast, forever patient, waiting to charge at her captor when the chance presented itself. Except the First Slayer was the one outside the barrier, and whatever was left of Brett remained sealed inside the cocoon. Willow did everything she could think of, inside and outside of Brett’s mind, to help him, free him. But there wasn’t anything she could do either. Willow said that it was like Brett shut himself away; swallowing the key and closing his mind against everything, even his own consciousness.

I stayed with him as often as I could. I talked to him, read to him, listened to the other girl’s stories as they visited him, I kept his bedding clean and dry, I did everything I could for him. That was guilt, but that’s nothing compared to the guilt I felt for making him this way, and the guilt I feel now. I knew…what he felt about me. If it was obvious to everyone else, it was obvious to me. But he never said anything. I saw the glances and heard his little embarrassed gasps when I noticed his glances. He looked at me the way that the boys at school used to, like Riley and like Angel and Spike. He never said anything, never stepped beyond the chain of command or friendship. Maybe it was because of respect or doubt or “leagues.” But I did love him, just not in the way he wanted. He was my friend. He was my very good friend. He was a very good man.

I told him this while he lay in that starch-white bed. I looked into his unseeing eyes, cried my guilt-ridden tears, and apologized for everything. I apologized for being unable to save him, for taking him from his life with his family and friends, for having Willow cast the spell that ruined his and so many lives. I told him I was sorry for not acknowledging his feelings, for the First Slayer, for the men who made her into a monster, for the demons and vampires who made her role necessary. I took his clammy, unfeeling hand in mine and begged his forgiveness. I kissed his fingers and wet them with my falling tears. I pleaded for him to return, so I could have a chance to make it right. But I knew he wouldn’t; that he couldn’t. He did this to himself. He tried to die to keep us safe. To keep the power he was never meant to have contained. The power that some cruel twist of fate, and the tragic nature of the Slayer, forced on him. Because of me. Because of her. Because of the Shadow Men of eons past, who perhaps chose a woman to be their weapon because no man could ever hope to handle the powers of a demon.

I poured out my guilt to his closed ears and stared into his eyes, asking him to wake up. I kissed his motionless lips, his cold cheeks, and his fingers once more. But it was useless. When I realized that, I felt it all. The pain, loneliness, sorrow, rage and fear of the Slayers. All that had come before, and all I had created to die for me. For the world. I was responsible of those girls, for Brett. I promised their families I would care for them. So many had died, and the world was only filled with Slayers little more than two years ago. I’d failed. But I couldn’t give up. As tragic and as horrific as it was, Brett found a way to protect those who mattered. In a way, he didn’t give up the fight. Not truly; at least, that’s what I believe.

I kissed him one last time and whispered my promise that he would not be forgotten before I pressed a pillow from the next bed to his face. I held it there, refusing to cry for fear of letting go, making him suffer further. He didn’t struggle. No one stopped me. The machines rang a high-pitched tone of finality. But I collapsed into sobs on the floor next to his bed, because it still didn’t make it right.

So, to every Slayer reading this, to every human, demon, vampire, or whatever you are, know that there was a male Slayer. His name was Brett. He was born with a secret that made him more than a man. He was a good man. That’s all he ever wanted to be. And he was my friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first watched a couple episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer - somewhere in the middle of Season 5 - I immediately fell in love, but I was curious: why were there no male Slayers? Only after watching more, and in the proper order, did I learn why that was. And so I put my foolish notions of male Slayers behind me... until I went to university, and I learned more about the realities on the social and cultural constructions of gender. It was here I pondered: what makes a woman? What makes a man? It was out of my love for this show, and my broadening worldview, that this short story was born, and I now feel comfortable sharing with the fandom.


End file.
